


How to Leave Flowers at a Grave

by MangoMartini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Frottage, M/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock?” John asks, and it makes Sherlock look up from his mobile. “What are you smiling at?”</p><p>“Is everything okay?” Mary has put her fork down, and the corners of her mouth seem to be trying to join it down by her salad. </p><p>At first Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He tries to picture what it would look like explaining everything in this open-air cafe to <em>JohnandMary</em>: oh I’m fine, just texting that lovely Moran chap who used to kill people for Moriarty--you know the one. But there’s something in the scraping of chairs as they move in and out from under tables along with the clatter of ceramic that convinces Sherlock any explanation would end up misheard and misunderstood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Leave Flowers at a Grave

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be just a pwp request for more Seblock that turned into anything but that. Also, I've only seen season three about one and a half times, but I think this all works.

The text messages start out as threats. 

_Welcome back, Mr. Holmes. -S.M_

_Think you’re clever enough to solve this bank job? -S.M_

_One bullet, and these games could all be over. And I never miss. -S.M_

At first, the messages are a distraction. Sherlock has a million other things to worry about that aren’t some disgruntled sniper who happens to have his number. Twice Sherlock thinks to call Mycroft and ask for a new one, but twice things come up. Bombs, trains, fires, John Watson--it’s always John Watson. 

But as the wedding planning gains speed, it’s no longer John Watson. He’s fused and become _JohnandMary_ , and the way Mary touches the small of John’s back, the way she hands him mugs of tea, the way she breathes all make Sherlock grind his teeth and curl his toes. He counts down all the different ways he knows to kill someone, even someone like Mary, and is always calm after twenty or thirty. 

Not that he’d try, though. Sherlock still hasn’t deleted information on conjoined twins he learned at a museum in his teens: if one twin dies, so does the other, because they’re attached. Killing Mary meant killing _JohnandMary_ , which meant killing John Watson. 

The weather is warm as he’s walking back from looking at a crime scene for Lestrade--the son clearly did it, boring, and he didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that John asked Lestrade to call him in for anything--as the sun goes down. The night is only slightly cooler than the day, and around him people are milling around to pubs, to shops, to Underground stations. 

Sherlock avoids another group of people (tourists, his mind supplies, from Spain--shoes give it away) and tugs at the cuffs of his shirt. It is and has been too warm for his coat, but not wearing it leaves Sherlock feeling exposed. Too many people, too many stimuli. 

He pulls out his mobile. Sherlock’s texted John about this before, but no. _Dinner with Mary_ , Sherlock remembers John telling him earlier. They were getting dinner out because they had to go look at something for the wedding. Flowers? Dresses? Sherlock runs his free hand through his hair and tugs on the back of it. 

The most recent number he’s sent a text to is the one without a name, S.M. 

_Did you know you can tell a tourist’s nationality by their shoes? -S.H_

Sherlock presses the button to send the message, and the small sense of relief comes soon after. He walks a little farther, not expecting any reply--he doesn’t need a reply, only to not feel so isolated. So it’s an actual shock to Sherlock Holmes when his mobile chirps in his pocket, indicating that he has a text. 

There’s a brief flutter of hope that it’s from John ( _Dinner went terrible, leaving Mary, going to propose to you the moment you get home_ ) but of course it’s not. The message Sherlock receives makes him stop mid-step. 

_Or you could just talk to them. Accents are easier than shoes. -S.M_

Sherlock keeps his phone out as he keeps walking, almost at the station he needs. Before he descends down the stairs, he types back a reply. 

_No one wants to talk to me. -S.H_

And that’s how it starts. Distractions become welcome distractions, peppered with occasional threats. But every message Sherlock would have once sent to John, he sends to S.M, even going so far as to set the number as a contact. 

So when Moran texts Sherlock asking for flower shop recommendations near the cemetery, Sherlock replies without thinking much of it. 

It takes him half an experiment to realize what was going on, and another five minutes to remember where he set his mobile down. One he has it in his hands, safety goggles pushed up on the top of his head so he can see the screen better, Sherlock has no idea what to type. But he can hear John’s voice in his head telling him to apologize, so that’s what Sherlock does. 

_It was honest. I used to leave flowers for you as well. -S.M_

_You must have really loved him. -S.H_

It’s the only reason Sherlock can think of why someone would continue to leave flowers on a dead man’s grave after this long. Love is awful like that. 

_Guess that makes you a better genius, then. He never figured it out. -S.M_

Sherlock sets his mobile down on a cleaner part of the table, away from the chemicals, and all he can think as he readjusts his goggles is yes, love is awful like that. 

John only has to ask twice before Sherlock agrees to stick around to have lunch with _JohnandMary_ at a nearby cafe. He and John just finished a short case and he hasn’t seen John all week--too busy with Mary and the wedding. 

Mary picks at her salad as John seems to debate whether or not he wants to eat his grilled sandwich with a fork and knife or not, as if he still needs to impress Mary. As if the ring on her left hand isn’t enough. 

Sherlock’s drinking black coffee with too much sugar because it feels like a penance. And then his mobile goes off. He takes it out, and John asks, “everything alright? Lestrade need us back for anything?” As if he and Sherlock still make an us. 

“No, nothing like that,” Sherlock says. 

_You busy this weekend? Thinking of causing some havoc in Germany and don’t want to be interrupted. S.M_

Sherlock sips on his coffee, the sugar stinging his gums. He has been wondering if Moran would choose to go after the new art collection being unveiled in Munich this weekend. Where Moriarty saw the big picture, Sherlock has learned, Moran sees the art. 

“Sherlock?” John asks, and it makes Sherlock look up from his mobile. “What are you smiling at?”

“Is everything okay?” Mary has put her fork down, and the corners of her mouth seem to be trying to join it down by her salad. 

At first Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He tries to picture what it would look like explaining everything in this open-air cafe to _JohnandMary_ : oh I’m fine, just texting that lovely Moran chap who used to kill people for Moriarty--you know the one. But there’s something in the scraping of chairs as they move in and out from under tables along with the clatter of ceramic that convinces Sherlock any explanation would end up misheard and misunderstood. 

That, and John has never asked Sherlock why he has stopped texting him so much, or at all. 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock lies, as easily as if it were the truth. 

Before John replies, Mary has checked her watch and is telling John to look at the time or else they’ll be late for something. She kisses him on the cheek and it’s nowhere near as bad as when she reminds him that the rehearsal dinner is this Friday.

John promises that he will see Sherlock at the wedding rehearsal--of course he will, John is the groom and Sherlock is the best man and that’s why they need the rehearsal, Sherlock thinks as they leave. If they were in the right roles, he doubts they would need to rehearse anything. 

Alone, he takes another sip of the coffee, and lets the busboy clear away _JohnandMary’s_ dishes. 

_Wedding this weekend. -S.H_

_Yours never figure it out, either? -S.M_

Sherlock almost doesn’t reply. He puts his mobile in his pocket and leaves the cafe. But the sun is too bright and there are too many people and it throws off his mental map of London so that he doesn’t even know where the nearest Underground station is. So he takes out his mobile. 

_No. He made me best man. -S.H_

Moran doesn’t reply immediately, nor is there a reply when Sherlock returns to Baker Street. But later that night, past the time Mrs. Hudson has gone to bed, when Sherlock is sprawled out on the couch plucking at the E string of his violin that is slightly out of tune, a reply arrives. 

_Be good, and I’ll bring you back something from Germany. -S.M_

Sherlock doesn’t reply. 

By the reception, Sherlock knows he has done all he can for the wedding. Every new dance step, each new note of the song, and even the death they prevent feels like placing flowers on a grave. And of course Mary’s pregnant, and Sherlock makes a note to research if flowers are safe for babies, or if he will have to get whatever it will be a flowered blanket instead. 

It’s the thought he carries with him as he leaves the wedding. He could have stayed, he knows, as he makes his way home in the ridiculous tuxedo. He could have stayed and danced and had cake like a normal guest. But he can’t see the point when he has something at home that will take the edge off and the needle to go with it. Mycroft hasn’t even checked in to warn Sherlock against it. 

But Sherlock doesn’t even make it to the box under his bed, because the light in his flat is on and there’s a man sprawled out on one of the chairs, flicking cards between his fingers like he has any right to be there in the first place. 

“How was the flight?” Sherlock asks, but the deduction feels like picking low-hanging fruit. He knew Moran was out of the country. 

Moran looks Sherlock up and down, presses his cards together, and asks, “how was the wedding?”

Sherlock takes off his tuxedo jacket and tries to avoid looking at Moran. The man is much easier to deal with as a series of numbers and letters, a contact that can be put away until Sherlock needs the thinnest scrap of human contact. Not this. Not now. 

He remembers Moran’s last text and wonders if his performance constituted good, and if that goodness still counted because Moran caught Sherlock before he had the chance to be truly bad. 

“The general consensus is that it was lovely. A man almost died,” Sherlock adds. He paces close to the door, unsure of what to do with his body. Sherlock makes the mistake of looking over as Moran smiles and is overcome with the urge to count how many teeth the man has in his mouth, because it must be more than thirty-two. 

“Bet you liked that,” Moran replies, and there’s so much warmth in those words that Sherlock wants to cut them open and crawl inside them. “But I brought you something else you might like.” And when Sherlock still doesn’t say anything, Moran adds, “me.”

Sherlock has to lean his lithe frame against the wall at that, because it’s so unbelievable it makes him dizzy. Someone left a continent, an art heist, to come see _him_. And he isn't even high, and the person isn't Mycroft. 

And Moran just sits there, broad and solid with hair so dark of a blond that Sherlock can pretend it’s not blond at all, because he doesn’t want to confuse one with the other, doesn’t want anything to ruin this. 

“I was going to indulge in some cocaine,” Sherlock says, “though I’m guessing that’s not an option anymore.” He still hasn’t left the stability of the wall, and Moran hasn’t moved any closer to him. 

Moran nods. “I figured as much. I can’t read people to the extent you can, but I do know how to read a file.”

It’s an unspoken mention of Moriarty, and the weight it adds to the room is crushing. 

“So you’re here to keep me clean.”

“I’m here to give you an alternative.”

The novelty of it has Sherlock standing off the wall. No nervous ticks that he can tell, no shifts in body language--Moran is telling the truth. “Well,” Sherlock says, giving his mind time to adjust, “that is one option Mycroft never tried.”

Moran laughs and it’s deep and throaty. “God I hope not.”

Sherlock knows how vulnerable he is in this moment--there’s an incredible honesty he feels when there’s a needle on the horizon, like shooting up will point his compass to truth and north. Because it wasn’t Moriarty who burned his heart out, not in the end.

There’s a hand on his jaw and it tilts his face up so that he’s looking at Moran, and the kiss that follows is so soft and saccharine that it feels like planting flowers over the charred remains of his heart. 

“We’re not exactly each other’s first choice,” Sherlock says, but he doesn’t move away. 

Moran moves to stroke Sherlock’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “But you’re still my choice.” Sherlock’s silent, wondering what Moran read in that file that allowed him to know the perfect response. “I just said something sweet,” Moran says, leaning down to whisper into Sherlock’s ear. “Now I’m fairly certain this is the part where you kiss me.”

Sherlock does, slowly, like he’s waiting for the world to crumble beneath him because no one has ever wanted him like this, this easily. Each push of his lips against Moran’s makes Sherlock worry that he will think about John--what this would be like if he had to angle his neck down to kiss him--and yet each kiss is distinctly not John.

John Watson will never kiss him. 

But as Moran pushes his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, as Sherlock pulls Moran closer to his bedroom, he stops caring. The weight of it all, from the wedding and the mystery and everything he said and didn’t say during his speech, falls off with each article of clothing that falls to the floor. 

Sherlock’s clothes fall off first, the ridiculous tuxedo that clung to his skin like a bad costume. He’s too skinny and he knows John would nag him about it if he knew, but all Moran does is trail kisses down Sherlock’s neck to his shoulder, nipping at the smooth skin with no force behind it, accepting. It’s attention he doesn’t feel like he’s earned because he’s not talking, not performing, but Moran doesn’t stop until he’s covered both Sherlock’s shoulders with kisses.

His fingers fumble with Moran’s buttons but Sherlock is determined to get each one of them, and each time he hears Moran chuckle Sherlock remembers they have time, they can do this all night. So he doesn’t rip the buttons off but focuses, and finally he can push the white shirt with its airplane wrinkles off Moran’s shoulders. 

They’re broader than Sherlock’s, taller too, and his entire upper half is covered with marks, scars, and--

“Not now,” Moran says, tilting Sherlock’s head back up again. “After, but not now.”

Sherlock’s gaze travels farther south and _oh_ , alright then. “How do you want to do this?” They’re standing by the open door, half-naked and hard and the bed is right there, if only Sherlock could figure out how to get to it. 

Moran strokes a hand through Sherlock’s hair and it makes Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed for a moment. “I guess it’s too much to expect you to have any lube?”

Sherlock thinks, because he knows the exact contents of his room, of the entire flat, and he scrolls through it all like data on a spreadsheet and nowhere does anything like that come up. There used to be condoms in medicine cabinet, John’s, but all of his things have since moved to _JohnandMary’s_ flat. “No.”

That big hand in his hair travels down Sherlock’s chest to cup his crotch. “Next time, then,” Moran says, as Sherlock can’t help but whimper. 

Only then do they make it to the bed, barely managing to take off any more clothing before they’re rutting together without even making it under the blankets. That same hand that was in Sherlock’s hair is now fisting their cocks, and Sherlock’s clinging to Moran like he’ll lose this all if he lets go. He comes without muttering anything that makes any sense but he can hear his own name in Moran’s voice, hot on the side of his neck as he comes, and that almost feels better. 

Moran’s still on top of him and Sherlock feels like he can’t get enough air, like he doesn’t want to get enough air, and even the feeling of come drying on his skin isn’t even that bad. 

“We should get cleaned up,” Moran says after a moment, still on top of Sherlock.

“You’re staying?” No one stayed. No one ever stayed. 

Moran huffs, leans down and tugs at Sherlock’s ear with his teeth. “No. I just figured I would leave the heist I’ve been planning for months, hop on a plane from Germany and break into your flat for a quick one-off and then pop back down to see how things are going.”

“Oh.”

Moran kisses Sherlock again, slow and lazy and it’s not going anywhere but it doesn’t have to because neither of them are going anywhere, not now, not to coffins or marriages and Sherlock lets himself float on the fleeing of it all, like a sunshine high through his entire body. 

“Come get cleaned off,” Moran says in between kisses, “and I’ll suck you off after.”

And there’s no way Sherlock can say no to that.


End file.
